Congressmen Speer, Clymer, Ackley and O’Neill.
Washington, January 15, 1880.
“Birdie, oh, come and live with me;
You shall be happy—you shall be free.”
Contrary to all precedents of the past, the coming of Congress has had little or no effect on the matrimonial market, although it is confidently believed that Charley O’Neill is holding a vast amount of “stock.” Notwithstanding the danger and difficulties of carrying this weight, he has decided to enact the role of the immortal Don Quixote, and has already planted the banner of his famous predecessor on the soil of the capital of the New World. But lest Philadelphia take umbrage at this unnatural exploit, as it looks like spurning the city of his beloved soul, he wishes it understood that had he fixed Philadelphia as a starting-point he would have been confined by the meshes of the Camerons, whereas Washington, being the centre of civilization, offers facilities that cannot be breached until the farthest limit of the whole country is reached. As matters now stand, there isn’t a maid or widow at the capital whose heart is not pit-a-pat, and even married women are providing against a morning of storm which might close in perpetual sunshine. Already the first celebrated battle has been fought, and contrary to the usage of ancient chivalry. But as this is a different age, and bottom side the globe as to Spain, it must not be expected that ancient rules will be followed. When Charley O’Neill attacked the windmills the other day in the House it was found that he had hit Sam Randall in disguise. When he learned that he had got the wrong pig by the ear, he soon scattered his forces and comforted himself by thinking, if he had not destroyed a windmill of which Philadelphia would be well glad to be rid, the skirmish at least had been fought in the “Cave of the Winds,” and if not up to the standard of “knight errantry,” had sufficient of the Quixotic flavor to answer every modern purpose. For the present he has decided to save the expense of a “Squire,” unless Congress will make an appropriation. Besides, Sancho Panza would be in the way if he were the true metal of the Spanish sort. But to remove this difficulty a private secretary has been found who will open his tender missives; escort distressed damsels to the theatre; gorge himself at “society lunches,” and sigh like a “lying trooper” when the proper parties are around. Charley O’Neill wants Philadelphia to know that most of his mischief is performed by proxy, and when he returns he will be none the worse for wear. On account of the slippery pavements he will not be provided with a “Rosinante,” but not to disappoint his constituents he has determined to get upon his “high horse” on the floor of Congress whenever a pestiferous Democrat shows his hand. A magnificent belle of the “West End” has offered him a plume for his hat, but he disdains such marks of frivolity and declares that he will appear only in the simple armor of an American citizen. This consists of a clean white shirt, a neat broad-cloth coat—which under no circumstances can be “swallow-tail”—Wanamaker pantaloons and patent-leathers. The hat—a soft felt hat—capable of almost any expression. When he enters the Capitol in this harmless disguise the sensation would be indescribable if the attention was not divided by the roar of Kelley, he who has played the role of lion ever since his celebrated interview with Bismarck, which settled the bi-metallic squabble in both hemispheres.
The editor of The Times is notified that a column could be furnished concerning Charley O’Neill, the Quaker City’s favorite son, and the article would be as crisp and tender as young radishes in spring, but will it pay to build up a reputation that will last as long in the future as Don Quixote has in the past? Whilst The Times is solving the important problem, the dainty and delicate Acklen shall be served up. Congressman Acklen, of Louisiana, is one of the youngest and handsomest “bachelors” in the House, and whilst attending strictly to his Congressional duties he has been fortunate enough to get mixed up in more “scrapes” in which women have a part than any half dozen members put together. Last winter he figured at Welcker’s in what might be termed a “celebrated case,” or would be if the bottom facts could be found. His partner in the melee was a beautiful golden-haired widow from New York. Telegrams flew all over the country; there was a suspension of the rules of the House. The principal witness, an army officer, who appeared to have conscientious scruples, fearing an “investigation,” escaped to Canada. The widow published a card in the papers, announcing that Congressman Acklen had “offered” to marry her, but she refused to be comforted in that way. This performance healed the young widow’s reputation. Mrs. Welcker published a card also, saying nothing of the kind ever occurred at her house. This saved the honor of the hotel. At the same time a kind of Chinese din was kept up, which proved that the army officer left suddenly to avoid “a debt of honor,” whilst the widow ran away to California and set the whole Russian fleet on fire, which happened to be temporarily stopping in the San Francisco harbor. In the meantime Congressman Acklen occupied his seat in the House, “the observed of all observers,” looking as innocent as a Thomas cat whose whiskers are scarcely bereft of the cream. He had all the sympathy of his brother members, because they felt certain he would learn their caution in time; but, sad to relate, he had hardly set foot in his beloved New Orleans before he tripped and fell into another “scandal.” It would consume too much of the valuable space of The Times to record this part of his history, but it can all be found in any of the files of last year’s Louisiana papers. But he is here again, as clean and bright as ever, and to prove his restoration he has left the unhealthy moral atmosphere of the “West End” and rented a mansion on the pure heights of Capitol Hill, where every spot is hallowed by the virtuous Father of his Country. To be away from temptations of all kinds he has taken an aged widow for housekeeper, with her two beautiful grown daughters, just to keep the sex in mind. In this way he puts down scandal, and he is never seen going to his own house except at the proper hours of the day. Just as the banana and the orange, by their lusciousness, show their tropical origin, Congressman Acklen proves by his appearance that he is the “Son of the Sunny South.” Hardly beyond the middle size, beautifully moulded, with raven hair and scarlet lips, he impresses the beholder with his curious intensity and concentration, just as the diamond flashes out its liquid fire; but he is a real “lady-killer” in the longest, broadest, deepest sense of the word, and he is only 30 years old, and refuses to be sobered by the holy bands of wedlock; but the edge of his wickedness is being borne away by the attrition of national notoriety and the fast-increasing fastidiousness of his own taste, and yet his reputation rather endears him than otherwise to fashionable “society.”
Pennsylvania has more bachelors in the House than its proper quota as compared to other States; but this may be the harmless way which the “Old Keystone” takes to get rid of her extra rubbish. Hiester Clymer is here, apparently cold, hard, and indestructible as Allegheny granite, and he strikes those with whom he is brought in contact by the same feeling awakened at the touch of rugged sublimity. The grandeur of the mountain! The solemnity of the sea! Who would dare to laugh and jest in his presence? The writer has been informed by some of his brother members that he has a remarkably sweet and winning manner to the few privileged to occupy the chambers of his soul; and we should remember the rough, brown husk of the nut is no indication of the kernel. High-toned and kingly in manner on the floor, always the right word in the right place. For nearly if not quite a dozen years, for we write from memory only, his stalwart form has been a landmark in the Pennsylvania delegation, or a sort of Democratic wharf against which the spray and foam of the Republican ocean has madly dashed in vain. In reputation, so far as women are concerned, his character is the reverse of Congressman Acklen; but suppose he had been contrived on a sugar plantation, done up in a creole skin, forged, as it were, under the very eyelids of the tropics? What then? Shouldn’t Pennsylvania get down on her stony old knees and thank heaven that her Congressmen are not made like Southern men?
As if to correct the acidity of the delegation, Congressman Herr Smith is added on, just as the last lump of sugar is put in to perfect the coffee cup. Whilst having all the virtues, he is believed to have none of the vices, and his moral character at the capital is always quoted No. 1; risks few and readily taken. Society knows little or nothing about him, but the quantity, small as it is, may be set down to his decided advantage. He has the reputation of being rich, but there is little show or ostentation. He is always in his seat, always at work, apparently with nothing but his constituents’ interests at heart. It would be better for our sex if it were otherwise, but no delicate-minded woman would think of disturbing the serenity of his soul, and he keeps so far away from the other kind that an accident never can happen. No one doubts but at some period of his life the ocean of sentiment in his bosom has been traversed by gulf streams of romance, and he, too, like Whittier, can sing: “The saddest of all, it might have been.” Blessed be the spiritual hand that touches the human heart-strings only to awaken the divinest melody, and thrice blessed is he who knows how to avoid those pits in the soul whose black depths reflect bitterness, satire, and irony. Side by side in every great mind the Creator has ranged the awful caldrons of good and evil. Congressman Smith knows how to thread the mazy way with pleasure to himself and honor to all concerned.
As it has been the intention to give the South the same fair showing, apples and oranges, hardy roses, and magnolias, Georgia comes in with a Congressman who, though never a “bachelor,” is a festive widower of five months’ duration. “Emory Speer, Athens, Georgia,” is engraved on his cards, and considering what should be termed his “recent grief” it would seem very wrong to embalm him in the papers. But he gives public parties at his hotel, leads off in the “german,” flirts with the girls, and is not that sufficient reason to believe that he is not the kind who enjoys the luxury of grief without some sort of mitigation? Possibly he may have taken this dashing way to cover his sorrow, but the young ladies believe that he is in dead earnest, and if it were not for his five children and lack of permanent fortune he would be considered already one of the “catches” of the season. He was a Confederate soldier when only 16 years of age, served all through the late war, studied law with Ben Hill and became his successor when he was promoted to the Senate. Singularly handsome in person and winning in manner, volatile and boyish to the last degree, he is not to be judged by the hard, stern law to which we cold-blooded Nor’westers bow the knee. At any rate, he is sincerity itself, and probably he may be a big child in disguise. Who knows when the threshold of manhood or womanhood has been passed? There is a character in Hawthorne’s “Marble Faun” always supposed to be romance. But here in Congress is the case that fits it. Who dare sit in judgment on a fellow-mortal? He that is wisest is the most humble, and those who are dearest will give us a rest.
Olivia.
